


leaves in a storm come to rest

by ExultedShores



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brief Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Prophecy, True Love, sort of a prompt fill?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22250377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: When she was a child, a soothsayer told Daenerys of the man who would be her one true love. But prophesies can be fickle, and heart and head do not always agree.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 14
Kudos: 100





	leaves in a storm come to rest

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [this](https://lodessa.tumblr.com/post/190235407069/fic-idea-i-dont-have-time-to-write) tumblr post and it kicked my writing brain into high gear, so please have 2k of Jorleesi I wrote in the middle of the night just because.

Daenerys is but eight years old when she learns of the man who will be her truest love.

They’re wandering the marketplace, she and her brother, begging for food, for coin, for anything that will sustain them another day. They didn’t eat yesterday, when the market was closed, and the day before she ate only a half-rotted apple a merchant had deemed unsellable. She’s already grown numb to the pain of her empty belly, and that, more than anything, scares her. They need to find food, and quickly.

Yet when a cloaked figure calls for her – calls for her _by name_ , at that – she cannot resist. She lets her hand slip out of her brother’s, which is easier than it should be. Viserys stopped caring a long time ago, around the time Ser Willem died. He only thinks of the Iron Throne, of vengeance, of _justice_ , and Daenerys is a burden to him, her only purpose to be his sister-wife when she comes of age, to keep the Targaryen line pure, the blood undiluted.

The mysterious cloaked figure wants her blood as well, though only a drop, drank from her thumb. “To see your fortune, my child.”

It sounds fantastical. “My fortune?”

“Yes. Give me your blood, and I can tell you what shall be your greatest triumph, your deepest regret, your worst enemy, your truest love. Blood speaks, dear. It sings the song of your life.”

“Tell me about love,” she demands. She is eager to know it.

The stranger inclines their head, and Daenerys allows them to dig the tip of a dagger into the pad of her thumb, to bring her hand to their lips and suckle at the red welling from the pinprick.

“The blood of old Valyria,” they hum, pleased. “An exquisite taste.”

Daenerys hardly dares to breathe.

“The one meant for you wields a sword made of the strongest of steels. Valyrian, like your blood,” they murmur. “It is named Longclaw, after the beast that his ancestors chose for their sigil. A beast which roams only the northernmost lands, lands covered in snow and ice. He hails from this place – the northern plains of Westeros.”

She has never seen snow before, and already her heart swells with longing – for the unknown, for home, and for this man meant to be her truest love. “Can you tell me anything more?” she pleads. “What is he like? What’s he called?”

“Loyal,” they say immediately. “Loyalty means everything to him. I wish I could divulge to you his name, but the Sight is… fickle. I can only tell you it begins with the letter ‘J’.”

Daenerys hides her disappointment at that behind a smile. “Thank you,” she says. “I… I have naught to pay you with.”

“Your blood, dear child. You paid with your blood.”

And perhaps that ought to concern her more than it does, but she is certain the knowledge she gained is worth the price regardless.

* * *

She does not tell Viserys of her encounter with the soothsayer, even though he is furious at her for sneaking off. The bruise she receives that day doesn’t disappear for a fortnight.

Only a decade later, when he comes to her with that gleeful smile that promises misfortune, does she let it slip – because Viserys wishes to marry her to a Dothraki khal, and it is panic and fear that coaxes the confession from her lips.

What she receives in return is not the apology and the embrace she foolishly hoped for; it is the fury and pain she has come to expect from him. “You _will_ be his bride,” Viserys hisses, in a tone that books no argument. She has woken the dragon. “I don’t care what some half-wit swindler made you believe. We need Drogo’s army in order to go home, remember? And don’t forget, sweet sister, that you are _mine_ by birthright.”

There is nothing she can do to change his mind, she knows, and she cannot leave him either. Not only is he her family, he is also the only reason Illyrio allowed them to stay at his home. Without Viserys, she is a woman alone in the world, and that scares her even more than being forced to marry a stranger.

She weds Drogo as is expected of her. She does not think much of the Westerosi knight from Bear Island who gifts her a set of old books – not because she is ungrateful, or because she thinks him beneath her, but because she finds herself quite incapable of feeling anything but dread for her rapidly approaching wedding night.

Yet when she peruses the books he gave her only days later, the tales a welcome respite from her saddle pain, she learns Bear Island is located in the Northern Kingdom of Westeros, and her heart _soars_ – Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island might very well be her destiny.

She seeks him out that evening, her heart hammering in her chest. He is sharpening his sword, and the opportunity is too good to pass up. “Does your sword have a name, Ser? I’ve been told all good swords have names.”

His smile is fond. “Only those made of Valyrian steel, Khaleesi.”

“Is your sword made of Valyrian steel?”

“No,” he says, and her heart plummets. “I used to – I’m not worthy of a Valyrian steel blade.”

When Drogo leaves her alone after making use of her that night, she weeps into her furs. She had so hoped.

* * *

Years pass. Viserys is dead, as is Drogo, as is Rhaego. She does not find her one true love, though she certainly finds love in the people who follow her, and in the children she birthed from petrified eggs. She is powerful, and she is desirable, and she is content.

The soothsayer’s words never leave her, but she does not cling to them as fiercely as she used to.

Ser Jorah betrays her trust, and that, more than anything, more than even his nameless sword, convinces her he cannot be meant for her. Her true love values loyalty above all else.

He returns to her, too – out of loyalty, out of love, but she cannot take him back. Disease took hold when she cast him away, and he is likely to perish from it.

She sends him away again. It hurts, like nothing ever has before – except, perhaps, for the first time she sent him away, and the second time.

His absence _hurts_.

* * *

Not long after she finally sails for Westeros, two men arrive on Dragonstone to seek an audience with her.

“This is Jon Snow,” Ser Davos Seaworth introduces his King with little fanfare. “He’s King in the North.”

Her heart does not soar, this time. She is not prepared to deal with another disappointment.

Yet when she finds him alone on the battlements of her castle, she has to ask. “Your sword, what is it called?”

His hand caresses the pommel, carved to resemble a wolf’s head. “Longclaw.”

 _It’s him_.

Kissing him is not a decision so much as it is an impulse.

She feels nothing.

She hasn’t felt anything since she ordered Ser Jorah to find a cure for his Greyscale.

* * *

“This man says he is your friend, Khaleesi.”

He is.

He is her most trusted advisor, her most valued general, her dearest friend – but not her truest love. She knows this, yet she cannot keep the smile from her face, the tears from her eyes, the elation from her heart, when Ser Jorah kneels before her, healed and whole and _here_. “I return to your service, my Queen. If you’ll have me.”

“It would be my honour.”

His presence fills her with joy. Their embrace sends shivers up her spine. His very existence makes her feel… makes her _feel_.

But he is not meant for her. Jon Snow is her true love, and she clings stubbornly to that truth. She spends as much time with him as decorum allows, learns about him and his people, about his desire to protect them from the coming threat of the White Walkers. He is loyal to the North, to his people, to his family. He is everything the soothsayer told her he would be.

They head for Winterfell, and she sails with Jon, against Ser Jorah’s counsel.

But even on that ship, sharing Jon Snow’s cabin, she feels nothing.

* * *

The battle with the dead is eminent.

Her mind is reeling, though not with thoughts of war – rather, with thoughts of _family_. Because Jon Snow is exactly that – her nephew by blood, the son of her older brother Rhaegar.

He truly is her perfect match, the blood of her blood.

Yet still, when she looks upon him, she feels… no, not nothing.

She feels fear. She feels resentment. She feels fury. The secret of his heritage could break apart everything she’s built, and she despises it.

He is _not_ her truest love.

She supposes it’s irony, that she has that realisation mere moments before Samwell Tarly comes to find her.

He is still wary of her, of the woman who had his father and brother burned alive. But tonight they are all on the same side, the side of the living, and he approaches her with only mild trepidation, a gargantuan greatsword clutched to his chest.

“Your Grace,” he greets with the barest of bows, “would you happen to know where I can find Ser Jorah?”

“I believe he is down in the courtyard with the Lady Mormont,” she tells Samwell. “What do you want with him?”

“I want to give him this,” he says, hoisting up the greatsword. “It’s Valyrian steel. It will serve him better than it will me tonight.”

“What is it called?” she asks, despite herself.

“Heartsbane,” Samwell answers. “It’s not Longclaw, but I’m certain it will serve him just as well.”

“Longclaw is Jon’s sword,” she says.

“Well, yes, it is now. Lord Commander Mormont gave it to him when Jon saved his life. But it’s the Mormont ancestral sword, traditionally wielded by the Lord of Bear Island. Ser Jorah left it behind when he, uh… left.”

He has barely finished speaking before she’s _running_.

She rushes down the stairs, past her armies, past the northerners, past young Lyanna Mormont, her eyes locked inescapably on the man to whom loyalty means everything, whose name begins with the letter ‘J’, who hails from the North, who once wielded a sword named Longclaw.

He turns, a half-smile already on his lips at the sight of her, and she all but crashes into him, pulling him down into a kiss she has denied them both for far too long.

And she feels – oh, but she _feels_. She feels _everything_. Longing and desire and happiness at finally having found him, fury and sadness and despair at all the years she’s wasted – but mostly, she feels _love_ , powerful, overwhelming, _true_.

When they break apart, he wears an expression of befuddled delight that only makes her want to kiss him again. She refrains, if only because he caresses her face with so much tenderness she would rather be lost in that sensation, the feeling of his calloused knuckles ghosting over her delicate skin.

His every touch is electrifying, and she cannot believe she has been so blind all this time.

And stars, she longs to tell him everything, longs to let him know why she has spurned his affections all these years, longs to let him know he is, undoubtedly, her truest love – but there is no time. The horn sounds, the dead are already here, and there is no more time.

But there will be again. After the battle, she will leave no secret untold.

For now, there is only one thing she needs to say, one thing he needs to hear.

“I love you.”


End file.
